


night time, night time, sets my house on fire

by sternenrotz



Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Sexual Experimentation, josh is a slag and so is rhys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when Josh gets drunk, he likes to kiss people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	night time, night time, sets my house on fire

**Author's Note:**

> titled after "the Birdmad Girl" by the Cure.

So, the thing is, when Josh is drunk, he likes to kiss people.

It's not, it's not a _habit_ or anything. He doesn't drink with the intent of finding someone to snog or anything, it just happens. Josh gets off-his-face pissed and ends up with his hands in someone's hair and his tongue in their mouth, and that's that. He doesn't sleep around, it's just snogging. Girls, guys, the rest of the band.

The first time that one happens, it's Joe who he ends up with. They're at some party, after a gig or something, and it's boring. Terribly boring. The drinks are cheap, though, so by the time that Josh finds himself sitting on a shoddy little sofa with Joe basically half in his lap, he's completely out of it. The snogging thing, that's Joe's idea, though, he reckons. It's never his idea first, although, honestly, he probably would have thought about snogging Joe sooner or later. See, it's a known fact that Joe is a bit of a slag, and equal opportunity, at that, and that combined with Josh's tendency to kiss people when he's drunk, that just means that sooner or later, they would have ended up doing it. This, kissing, that is.

Okay, actually, Josh does not know who started it. But one minute, he's talking to Joe about something. About music or the show they'd played that night or a film or something inconsequential like that. The next minute, he has one arm wrapped around Joe's shoulders and his hand on his knee, and Joe's tongue in his mouth. There's no gentle way of putting this, but, it's a gross kiss. All slobbery and sloshed and unfocussed.

Joe tastes like whiskey cola and cigarettes and his tongue is too big and invasive, pushing into Josh's mouth.Like it's a wall and his tongue is a nail or something like that, he's too out of it to be remotely decent at kissing. The cold metal of his piercing scrapes the roof of Josh's mouth, painful. That's about the time when Josh realises that that tongue has been inside Rhys' sister. Most likely on Rhys himself, too, because _really_. It's _obvious_ , and that's kind of fucking disturbing.

When Josh pulls back, Joe looks at him with his eyes blown so wide they're all black with no blue. He looks all star-struck and surprised. His mouth is pretty and pink and kissable. Then he laughs, fucking loud and around ten times more braying than normally.

When Josh laughs along, he shakes his head and gasps out between bursts of sniggers, “Jesus dick, look at your fucking face.”

The second time, it's Faris. Technically, not the second time, because Josh snogs Joe more than once when he's drunk. It's always kind of gross and weird, but Joe gets drunk and subsequently touchy-feely just as much as Josh does, so it's sort of the inevitable thing to happen. So, actually, Faris is the second one of his band mates Josh kisses when he's drunk. Faris is the opposite of Joe and Josh. When Faris gets drunk, he gets misanthropic and brooding and basically all those things he normally is, but ten times as bad. He likes to pick fights, over stupid things that don't really matter.

That's how it happens, too. They're standing in this hallway, right, at Josh's flat or at Faris' flat, and this is a quiet night, just the two of them. Faris has spent at least five minutes going off on a rant about something or other, all sneering and intimidating. Basically what Faris is like all the time, but he's also drunk, so he's not particularly eloquent, just trying to make his point by cutting Josh off every time he tries to raise his voice. He's got Josh backed against the wall, spouting off angry sentence fragments in relation to something that Josh doesn't even _remember_ , but which seems to be incredibly important to him at that very second.

“You're so, fuck. You don't understand,” Faris says, sounding almost exasperated. He leers down at Josh with this predatory gaze, and right, Josh has hands. Hands he can use, so he grabs Faris by his shoulders and tries to shove him away, “what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

The problem is, though, Faris is still bigger and stronger than he is, so he grabs both of Josh's wrists in one big hand and presses them into the wall. “Don't touch me. Listen.”

Faris is leaning in so closely that Josh can see his eyes all dark with drunkenness, intense and burning and hateful. What he expects is that he's about to get punched in the face.

What actually happens is, Faris closes the distance between them and presses his mouth over Josh's, teeth-clicking hard and awful. Their noses rub against each other and for a second it's too much, but then Faris tilts his head sidewards and probes his tongue into Josh's mouth properly and. Okay. Not that Josh wouldn't have let him under different circumstances, but still, he'd like to be able to move his hands. He wriggles his wrists a bit, but Faris doesn't relent. His teeth dig into the flesh of Josh's bottom lip, pricking-painful and oh-so-good, and Josh just sort of... goes limp. He sighs into the kiss and Faris groans back, and Josh is absolutely, positively, gone. Fuck.

“Sofa?” he asks, and Faris lets go, finally, and manhandles them both into the living room.

They're back to kissing as soon as they both collapse into the saggy upholstery, Faris heavy and bony in Josh's lap. He's all lips, soft, soft, softer than Josh would have guessed them to be, tongue licking sweetly at Josh's mouth. Josh doesn't think more about his friends' sex life than he absolutely has to, but he's got to say he's surprised. Faris seems like the type who just wouldn't give a fuck, who's just into it for the sake of getting himself off and to take control. He doesn't let Josh bite his neck, not where people will be able to see, fuck, but he's compliant enough to take his shirt off. Now, the thing is, Josh doesn't sleep around. He gets off-his-face sloshed and ends up kissing whoever happens to be near, but he doesn't fuck. Ever. Now, though, Faris underneath him, all smooth, brown skin and hard, flat planes and _man_. Now Josh doesn't care, too sloshed to bother with caring. He clips his teeth down around one peaked nipple, bites a trail all the way from Faris' collarbone to the thin trail of hair that leads from his navel down into his jeans.

Josh isn't gay. Honest. But he's sloshed, and when Faris hauls him up by his hair, “not my hair, you fuck,” and shoves one hand right past the waistband of Josh's trousers and then into his pants, okay. Maybe he's a little bit gay.

Maybe it's like that thing Rhys has said to him at least once, that the only difference between a straight man and a bisexual man is a couple pints. Rhys is a bit of a slag, though.

Yeah, honestly, Josh probably would have let Faris bum him if they hadn't both been too drunk to get it up.

They wake up the next morning with buzzing heads, Josh collapsed onto one side of the couch and Faris curled up uncomfortably on the floor next to the coffee table. Faris makes tea and then tells Josh, “I hope you know that if you tell anyone about this I can make it so your body's never found.”

“What, you mean the gay part or the too drunk to fuck part?”

Faris just glares at him like he wants to punch Josh in the face once again.

Tom is the next one. They're on tour, somewhere in America. Fuck's sake, America, and they've got a cheap little hotel. With hotel rooms on tour, there's the thing, Faris always gets the single, because he's the singer or something dumb like that. Josh's options are to share with Joe, who snores, or Rhys, who's. Rhys. So it's either that or Tom. Reasonable, quiet Tom who doesn't make any annoying noises in his sleep or get talkative when he's drunk or steal the duvet in the middle of the night and who actually has a sense of personal space.

Tom, whose reaction when Josh shows up in their hotel room with two bottles of Jack Daniels he's nicked from the mini bar in Rhys and Joe's shared room is to make grabby hands and say, “bloody brilliant.”

By the time that the bottle is empty and they're both more than a bit pissed, it's late and they've found a channel on their tiny hotel room TV that shows old episodes of the Springer Show. Tom's lying on his side of the bed in just his half-unbuttoned shirt and his briefs, because that's a thing he does, oddly enough. Josh is staring at the lump of his dick under the thin fabric and, yeah, fine. He gets a little bisexual when he's sloshed, all right. So Rhys is right for once. What of it.

“Josh?”

“Yeah?” Josh raises his head and looks back over at Tom, and wonders if Tom knows that he just spent the past few minutes staring at his crotch. “Hey.”

Tom stares at him with big drunken-bright eyes and smudgy kohl liner. “Hey.”

The bed they've got is king size, maybe three feet or so of empty space between them. If Josh rolls over just right, he can... He does. Then he's got Tom half under him. “Tom,” he says, like it's not obvious. “Tom, do you ever...”

Tom's got a nice mouth. Not that borderline obscene blow job apparatus that Joe calls a mouth, but it's full and red and shining wet under the blue light of the television screen. Before Josh can figure out how he wants to finish that question, he's already got his own mouth mashed against it. Tom makes a startled noise, but then he rolls with it and kisses back. He's, well, okay. Less aggressive than most of the blokes Josh has kissed yet. Much less aggressive than Faris, and he's less invasive and disgusting and overeager than Joe. It's almost a little bit like kissing a girl, but with stubble under his fingers and without the pair of tits pressing into his chest.

When Josh pulls back, after four seconds or so, Tom stares at him with an expression on his face like he's just grown a third eye. He's laughing, soft in the back of his throat, but it sounds uncomfortable.

“Josh,” he starts, and then, “sorry, mate, but I'm not gay.”

“Not gay either,” Josh says back, and he can't not laugh along. He stares at the expanse of Tom's pale throat, his clavicles and his chest where his first two shirt buttons are undone, all that white, smooth skin, and wonders if Tom would let him leave marks where people can see. It'd be worth it. “Just let me.”

Josh leans down and connects their mouths once again, and Tom doesn't resist. “And I mean, you went to boarding school.”

“Yeah, that's.” Tom laughs. “But that's _different_ , you know, when you're sixteen and horny with no girls around...”

“How's that different from being in a touring band?”

That's like a rule, isn't it. Whatever happens on tour stays on tour. Whether it's groupies or sexual experimentation or, well. Mainly sexual experimentation. Josh isn't sure if it can be called experimentation when Joe and Rhys do that kind of thing every single tour, though.

Josh dips his head and sucks at Tom's white, white neck, and Tom doesn't push him off. He only pulls back when he's sure that he's left a fat mark, red and bruise-blue on that pretty pale skin, and Tom catches his lips in his own again. He's less timid now, lets Josh sink his teeth into his bottom lip and yeah. That's, fuck, good. Tom ruts his hips upward just a bit, and Josh lets his hands wander. There's something odd about having another male body beneath his own, a flat chest dusted with dark hair and narrow hips, and, right, penis. Tom has at least managed to get it up, but still, feeling another hard cock rubbing against his own through the layers of briefs is weird as fuck. Not bad weird, just different weird.

Josh has his hands down the back of Tom's pants, feeling the flesh of his arse, by the time that Tom pulls away. They're both virtually naked, well. In their underwear, but that doesn't leave much to the imagination. Also, there's friction, good, good dry humping friction, but then Tom's movements still and he's basically pushing Josh away.

“Josh?” Tom's all sexed up looking. He's got his hair tousled where it's normally sleek, and his lips look a bit bruised. His neck looks a lot bruised. “We shouldn't.”

“Shouldn't what?” Josh asks, playing dumb. This never happened to him before. To be fair, normally, when he snogs people, he doesn't proceed to get naked with them or dry hump them, but. He's supposed to be the hot, irresistible one on the guitar who everyone wants to sleep with. He's not supposed to get rejected.

“Not do this. You're off your face.”

“So're you. If anything, we're both gonna be hungover and regretful in the morning.”

Tom shakes his head and makes a weird exasperated sighing sound.

“You've an erection,” Josh points out and brings his hand that he still hasn't taken from Tom's arse around to poke it through his briefs. It's all very matter-of-fact of him.

“Did you just use the word erection?”

“It's a funny word,” Josh insists. Well, it is. He pokes the thing once again. He didn't expect his first time touching another guy's cock to go like this.

“Yeah, well. I'm going to be fucked up tomorrow as it is, and I'd rather not be walking funny,” Tom points out, and with that, the topic seems to be covered for him. He rolls over, as good as he can with Josh's thighs still straddling his hips, and Josh figures that maybe he should not be an ass and get off. Get off of Tom, but actually.

“Can you throw me the duvet?”

“Yeah, here.” Josh watches while Tom wraps himself in the covers, facing the other way, so all he can see is the messy back of Tom's head and his sharp shoulder blades. His cock's still straining inside of his pants. “I'm off to go piss.”

When Josh has a ridiculously dissatisfying wank in their shoddy little hotel bathroom that night, he makes a point to not think about Tom during it.

So that means out of all his bandmates to have sexual escapades – sexcapades? Josh honestly hates that word, but it comes to mind – with, there's only Rhys left. If he really thinks about it, that's kind of weird, considering that Josh has a reputation for snogging people when he's drunk. And that Rhys has a reputation for ending up under people. Or on top of people or inside of people. A reputation for having sex with pretty much everyone, including the rest of the band, regardless of whether or not he's especially sloshed. It seems kind of obvious that sooner or later they'd end up together, if Josh were to think about it.

But the point is, he's not. Not thinking about it, or thinking about much else, for that matter, because he's got Rhys actually under him right now, and he's not quite sure how it happened. They're in Rhys' bedroom, because earlier that evening, Rhys had called him and asked him to come over. He'd wanted to talk. About guitar pedals, Josh is pretty sure, but when Rhys says 'talking' drinking usually goes along with it. Josh has no recollection of how he went from sitting on the ugly 60s patterned couch to pressing Rhys into his equally ugly 60s patterned bedsheets. Honestly, he's not all that desperate to figure it out. Rhys is soft and pliant below him, mouth hanging open and waiting to be kissed once again, thin fingers biting into Josh's shoulders. They've both lost their shirts somewhere along the way, so now Rhys' skin is flushed pink and heated, nipples pointed under Josh's fingers when he rubs over them.

“Josh, _god_ ,” Rhys whispers out, the first proper words to come from him in minutes. His hands stroke down to Josh's arse, pull their hips closer into each other, and. Fuck. The thing is, though, Josh's not near as sloshed as he was when he had Tom in the same position, or when Faris had him pressed into the sofa just like this. He's not sloshed enough to get really gay, then. Because, honestly, the push of Rhys' dick against his hip, even through the layers of their trousers and pants between them, is kind of weirding him out.

Weirding. Is that even a word? It's how he feels. This is weird.

Or maybe, it's because this is different from Tom or Faris, because with Rhys, the odds that they're going to actually follow through are pretty fucking high.

One of Rhys' thin hands slips between them, palms at Josh's cock already uncomfortably hard and straining against his jeans, and he makes a little purring sound, satisfied with what he's got there. Fucking hell. They're doing this.

“Just so you know,” Josh breathes, between two kisses to Rhys' sharp collarbone, “I'm not gay.” Considering that he's half naked on top of an equally half naked other man, it sounds really fucking stupid, but with Rhys, you never know.

“It's okay, we all are,” Rhys replies. His face is red, like, ridiculously blood-rush red, and he's got the most blissful hazy expression that Josh's ever seen. He's all beautiful like this, almost like a girl. There's still the whole penis issue, though, so not really like a girl. “A little bit heterosexual.” He fucking laughs, soft and sexy, and Josh has to kiss him again. His lips are soft, chapstick-soft, and red with how often Josh has already bitten into them.

Rhys fumbles around a bit with Josh's belt buckle, takes so long that Josh has to do it himself, and then he's pulling his cock out with careful hands. Josh doesn't really want him to stop.

“Still not going to bum you or anything. So, you know.”

“It's all right.”

The hand that isn't slowly tugging at Josh's dick slots into his hair and pulls him down, and Josh really, really is past complaining about that part. This time when they kiss, it's rough and dirty, Josh's tongue dipping past Rhys' teeth and into the slick heat of his mouth, basically fucking his mouth open. Rhys moans like a whore for it, and Josh has half a mind to just push his head down and actually fuck him in the mouth, because he's so aching hard that he's definitely not going to stop. Still, though, even that would involve looking Rhys in the eye as he comes, all over his face or down his throat, and that's a level of weird he's not willing to go to.

“Bet I can get us both off either way.” Rhys smiles, like he knows what he's doing, and his hand moves from Josh's cock to the waistband of his trousers where they've ridden down just far enough. “Take those off for me, yeah?”

And Josh does, too far gone to really wonder what Rhys has in mind, and watches him slide his own skinny fits off in turn. Then they're both completely naked, finally. Rhys' cock is lying flush and hard against his stomach, already slick with how turned on he is, and Josh can't help but stare at it for a second before he goes back to kissing Rhys. This sounds terrible, really, really terrible, but all he can think when the head grinds wetly over his hip is that it's actually kind of bigger than he would have guessed. Rhys' hands are at his hips again, pulling them closer together, and he's sighing, moaning softly just from that friction. It's good, yeah, but not as good as a proper fuck would be, barely enough to make Josh sink his teeth into his bottom lip.

“If you're just going to dry hump me then don't bother,” Josh hisses into the curve of Rhys' pretty, thin neck. He bites into the same spot where he'd already left a mark earlier that night, and it's enough to make Rhys roll his hips up once again. Also, to force a pretty, perfect moan from his mouth, because apparently, Rhys is a massive pain slut or something like that, which would be hot in a twisted way if it didn't have to be Rhys of all people.

Rhys of all people says, “well, then we'll have to think of something,” and throws his head back to show Josh even more neck. Josh bites his chin, his jaw, licks over the bruise he'd already left there and just watches Rhys shudder and moan. “Lube's in the bedside over there.”

He gives Josh the worst look, eyes hooded and dark, fucking bedroom eyes. Much dirtier than that, though, and Josh can't really do anything other than kiss it off his face before he rolls over and gets the small tube from the drawer. He doesn't even question what it's for, at that point, too eager to get off already, and when he turns back, Rhys is on his front, flushed face resting against the pillowcase. His back is arched a bit, accentuating the curve of his arse, and. Fucking hell.

“We're not going to have sex,” Josh says once again, and he's not sure who he's trying to remind of that.

“No,” Rhys replies, “we're not.” He stretches out one hand for Josh to place the lube into and squirts a generous amount out into the other. “Come here, yeah?”

His voice is heavy, sexy-sexy-heavy, and honestly, Josh didn't think Rhys could even sound like that. Now he understands, though, the reason Rhys manages to get virtually everyone into bed with him, when he's all spread out wantonly right in front of Josh. And Josh does. Come over, that is, and get into bed with Rhys, he supposes.

“Behind me.”

It seems kind of obvious, but still, Josh settles with his thighs left and right of Rhys' thin legs. Rhys reaches behind himself, pets Josh's hip with his lube-slick fingers for a second, before he starts smearing the liquid over himself, his arse and the underside of his balls and the soft inner parts of his thighs.

“I hope this is gonna work,” he says after his skin is glistening, almost obscene looking. “Josh, can you just...”

And it seems so, so obvious, the small space between Rhys' legs, so Josh leans a bit forward and pushes his cock into it.

“Fuck, exactly.”

It's a snug fit, Rhys' muscles flexed to be tight and unyielding, warm and slick, almost like a girl's cunt. Josh watches Rhys' ribcage heave with deep breaths, gasps, the way his thin fingers bite into the sheets. He buries his face deeper in the pillow, but Josh can't ignore the groans that slip out, vibrating heavy under his fingers where he'd somehow ended up pressing them into the dip beneath Rhys' ribs. Whether Rhys is actually getting anything out of is or whether he's just really turned on by having a dick in his general vicinity, Josh isn't sure at first, but then he notices the way Rhys' hips are working, pushing between every thrust and the mattress, and he understands.

“You look like a girl, like this,” he points out, because it's true. Different from Tom or Faris, who are all male, straight lines and broad shoulders, Rhys is slight and sex-flushed. Pretty, even with his face hidden in the pillow, with his messy unisex haircut and his thin arms. He's soft to the touch like a girl, too, as bony and pointy as some parts as him are, curvy at the waist. If Josh ignored the heavy weight of his balls he keeps pushing into, he could pretend he's fucking a girl. He doesn't.

He looks at the white skin of Rhys' back, marred with faded scratches from someone else, and such a perfect canvas to bite at and mark as his. The flesh of his arse, pushed up towards Josh and just right to grab at, so he does, digs his fingers in so hard that he hopes it will bruise. Like this, he gets a view of Rhys' hole, tightly furled and already slick with the lube from before, and wonders why he isn't fucking it.

“Shut up, god,” Rhys hisses between gasps, “shut up and fuck me harder.” His thighs clench even tighter around Josh's dick, hips working faster and faster back against Josh's, and, oh, yeah, that's why.

So he does, rut his hips down as hard as he possibly can into the snug passage between Rhys' legs, and then he bends down to sink his teeth into the dip of Rhys' spine. “But you'd be such a good girl,” he says into the skin there, surprised by how husky it comes out, and then he shuts up for good and bites down once again.

Josh moves one arm under Rhys to wrap around his waist and keep him close, so close that he can feel every single one of the noises that slip out while he fucks Rhys' thighs harder. He bites at Rhys' shoulder blades, the nape of his neck and his pulsing jugular, revels in every twitch and whine and gasp he forces out, and he thinks he sees a drop of blood at one point.

Neither of them last very long. After a couple minutes of wordless moaning and rutting, Rhys turns his head just enough for it to be comprehensible when he asks, “Josh, please, touch me? I'm so close, touch me?”

“You're such a cockslut,” Josh observes, one hundred percent true, but his hand that's still holding onto Rhys' arse moves further inward, strokes down the dip of it to his hole. Rhys squirms for it, presses his thighs even closer together and grinds his hips back, like, well, a good little cockslut. “Cockslut,” Josh repeats, just because he likes the way that it sounds.

He feels Rhys trembling underneath him, so, so close, and he himself is close, too, the urge to come aching in his balls and tightening the pit of his gut. With Rhys' head rolling itself into the pillow, the nape of his neck is exposed, all soft skin that's just looking to get bitten, so Josh does, sink his teeth in deep until he tastes the metallic tang of blood.

“Stop teasing, come on, touch,” Rhys whispers, chewing his own bloody-red bottom lip between the words. Josh wants a taste of that, too, wants to suck at Rhys' swollen mouth and eat the moans straight from him.

Instead, he decides to go through with it, he works his thumb into Rhys, not slowly or gently, just getting him open. Rhys is still slick with lube, so it goes in easily enough, but he's making the worst noise, squeaking and squealing like he's in pain, some injured animal sound. Josh almost pulls back out, but then, Rhys is still working his hips, still clenching his thighs tightly, and so instead, he twists his thumb once.

It's all that it takes and then Rhys comes, with a sharp hissing noise, hips bucking a few more times before he collapses down into the sheets. Honestly, Josh hates to admit it, but what gets him is the look on Rhys' face, absolutely ecstatic like he's tripping out, flushed and sweaty and gorgeous, and he comes, over Rhys' thighs and the ugly sheets.

He takes a second to get his breathing in check. His knees feel too weak, and maybe they buckle a bit, because Rhys whines, “get off me, you fat cunt,” and squirms a bit.

If he hadn't just had a pretty great orgasm, Josh would be offended, but instead, he rolls over, off of Rhys and wipes his hand off on the already soiled sheets.

Maybe he should go home, like, soon, because he's pretty that another rule is that sticking around after shagging Rhys is basically an obligation to enter a long-term fuckbuddy relationship with him. Josh gets up, slowly, head still fuzzy and knees still wobbly, and starts to step into his pants and trousers.

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

Rhys has turned around to lying on his back, on the side of the bed that doesn't have a wet spot. His face is all slack and still flying-high ecstatic, cock lying limp and still sticky on his stomach, like some sort of proof that yeah, Josh really just fucked him into _this_ without even touching his dick once. He sort of regrets not finishing on Rhys' face, all pretty and fucked out and eyeliner smudged. Pretty sure Rhys would have gotten off on that, too.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the fuck.” It's simultaneously all too girlish and stupid as it is completely slaggy, and Josh wants to roll his eyes, almost. He's glad that he's the one who's got to go home now, because Rhys probably would have wanted him to walk him or something like that. Josh is pretty sure that another rule is after sex, Rhys turns from a bisexual man-slag with a preference for cock into a teenage girl. “You were good. Real good.”

Josh just nods, the drunken fuzz in his brain all too apparent now that he's coming back down. “Yeah.” He buttons the last button on his shirt. “Not a problem.”

The thing is, sometimes Josh kisses people when he's drunk, and now, he's gone from kissing Rhys to shagging him, just like that, just once.

And that's that.


End file.
